What Else Could Go Wrong?
by Perfect Anomaly
Summary: Alucard is a wannabe poet.Walter wishes to be a chef.Anderson thinks he's Lady Gaga.And the Nazis have returned.The only sane ones,Maxwell and Seras,have organised a trip Down Under to save the minds of their friends.What else could go wrong?A: Lots.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yo guys, Wynter here! Here's my first Hellsing fanfic, which is kinda a parody. I hope you all like it! Oh, and btw, some things are a bit messed up, like the timeline (Integra's not an old lady anymore, and uh, Walter never betrayed Hellsing. And he want's to be a chef.)**

**So enjoy, and please review!**

**Chapter 1-Flowers, Models, Prawn Soup and Cheerleaders**

"Hey Police Girl, how does this sound?" Alucard called. "Roses are red, violets are purple-"

"Master, it's supposed to be 'violets are blue', not purple."

"Right," Alucard replied sheepishly, crossing out a few words. "I knew that. Roses are blue, violets are purple-"

Seras Victoria sighed in exasperation. "Master, it's the violets that are blue, not the roses!" she yelled.

"My bad. Roses are blue, violets are-"

"God save me."

Meanwhile, in Integra's office:

Integra strutted across the room and struck a pose that made her look like a chicken "So how does that look, Walter?"

Walter raised his head from a book labelled 'Cooking 101'. "Umm, ah, the prawn soup needs seven shallots, not grapes."

"I said, how did my walk look? Will I make it to the catwalk?"

"So sorry to rain on your parade, but cats aren't needed to make the soup." The book bound butler mumbled as he pored over the pages.

Integra face-palmed.

Many, many miles away, in Ireland…

Father Anderson walked into Maxwell's office wearing a wig, while singing at the top of his voice: "Woah oh oh oh oh I'm in love with Judas, Judas~ Hey Maxwell!"

Maxwell slammed down a fist. "Anderson, how many times do I need to tell you, YOU'RE NOT LADY GAGA!"

Father Anderson blinked. "What do you mean, I'm not Lady Gaga? I am!"

The poor Director of Iscariot, who had gone over this many times, was about to explain when the doorbell rang.

"Oh, thank goodness. Saved by the bell. Come in!"

Yumiko and Heinkel entered, both wearing matching blue and white cheerleading costumes complete with golden pom poms.

"GIVE ME AN I!" hollered Yumiko, making a crude 'I' with her arms.

"I!" screeched Heinkel.

Yumiko roared, "GIVE ME AN S!" She made a weird looking s.

"S!" howled Heinkel.

"GIVE ME A C!"

"C!" wailed Heinkel, sounding rather like a pig being roasted…alive.

Five minutes later, when Yumiko had finished yelling out 'Give me an (insert letter of alphabet here)', she cried:

"WHAT DOES IT SPELL?"

Heinkel, Yumiko, and Anderson all screamed, "ISCARIOT! WOOO! GO LADY GAGA!" (You can guess who yelled, 'Go Lady Gaga'.)

Maxwell clasped his head between his hands, a migraine beginning to form at the back of his noggin. "Why am I surrounded by blithering idiots?" he moaned to no one in particular.

Meanwhile, back at the Hellsing Manor, Seras was having problems that were almost as nasty as Maxwell. Alucard's poetry had not improved, even after reading several 'Poetry for Dummies' books and watching a metre high pile of DVD'S.

"Whenever I see you, a fire rages in the depths of my dead little heart. How does that line work? Would Integra like it?" Alucard asked Seras, hoping that the response would be good.

"What type of mental moron taught you that?"

Seras stomped off to find Integra, who, according to her, was the only sane one left.

Unfortunately, she was wrong. When she opened the door, a dazzling light hit poor Seras' eyes and almost left her blinded.

After regaining her sight, the baffled police girl saw that Integra's office had been transformed into a sort of disco room with a catwalk (and karaoke). The Director of Hellsing was wearing a long blue dress and sashaying down the red carpet.

In the opposite corner of the room, Walter was bent over a thick book. He occasionally stirred the large fondue pot next to him, which a noxious stench was rising from.

The stink of garlic, chilli, mouldy cheese and too much sugar was the last straw for the vampire. Seras stalked back into her room, kicked the cat (who yowled and scratched her, adding to her already bad mood) and grabbed the phone.

A trip down under was just the thing needed to cure everyone.


	2. Chapter 2: They Never Give up, do They?

**A/N: 'Sup dudes? …And dudettes? Well, hope you enjoy this chapter. Just a bit disappointed that I only got 1 review…and a lot, LOT more hits? Yeah, I can tell if you've read my story and didn't review…*eyeball zooms in on the ones that did not review the storeh*. Hmm…please review? Or Alucard will get cha with his poetry! Mwahahahaha!**

**Chapter 2-They Never Give up, do They? **

Wynter was halfway home with her new pointe shoes when her phone rang.

A female, distinctly British voice filtered through the static.

"I need help."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Seras. Seras Victoria."

"Woah, no way. From Hellsing?" Wynter gasped as she hauled tail out of the shop.

"Yes way. Now, I really need some help here. Alucard is some kind of wannabe poet. Walter thinks he's a cook. Integra wants to become a model!"

Wynter winced. "Oo-er, you do need help. So what's on your mind?"

"A holiday to Australia."

Hearing the suggestion, the teen nearly tripped over a nearby tree root. "Umm, okay then. When are you coming over?"

"Now. Meet us at the airport."

:)*(:

"So, where is the person meeting us?" Walter inquired while stirring his non-existent fondue pot. Integra was re-painting her nails an eye piercing shade of fluorescent pink and Alucard was still trying to write a poem. Seras steered the group away from an elderly man toting several bags and towards customs. "She's waiting out there, after customs and bag collection. Now, I need you all to step through that big thingy over there."

After sorting out a gun problem, sword dilemma, cooking utensil shenanigan, and missing bag situation, they found their way out of the interior of the airport.

"So, where is the person meeting us?" Walter asked yet again, while stirring his non-existent fondue pot for the three hundred and fifty eighth time that hour.

"She's right there," Alucard pointed to a girl who was holding a cup of coffee, a large denim messenger bag, and a pair of pointe shoes. She was yelling at someone on the phone between sips of her latte, and was also waving them over. "Her name's Wynter Thore. 13 years old, 155cm tall, of Asian descent."

"How do you know so much about her?' questioned a suspicious Seras.

"Oh, I don't. All I know is her passport number, she does ballet, yoga on Thursday afternoons, has a cat named Meowla, seven fish, address, holiday house address, school address, Chinese School address, cell phone number, and favourite chip flavour."

Integra, Walter, and Seras: O.O

"Okay, maybe I'm not a stalker, but just telepathic."

"And maybe you're a fairy, sparkling in the sun," Integra said sarcastically.

Alucard considered the comment. "Touché," he admitted after a moment of thought.

While they had been having the discussion about Alucard's stalker-ness and sparkly-ness, Wynter had spotted them. She was now frantically waving them over.

"No, I said, size 6 and a half, width 5x!" she shouted.

"Is she talking to us?" whispered Walter while doing you-know-what.

"I don't think so," squeaked Seras.

Wynter threw her hands up and her coffee cup landed on a nearby woman's hairdo. "Look, just tell Willow I got the pointe shoes. Okay? Now I'm meeting some people. Ciao~" She hung up. "Sorry about that," Wynter chirped while retrieving her beverage from the beehive head of the woman next to her.

Seras opened her mouth to say something, decided against it, and went for a simple, "It's alright. I think."

Their Australian correspondent led the way out of the airport, and flagged down a taxi.

"Where to?" The fat, bald man was drinking something that definitely wasn't water out of a flask. Integra, Walter and Seras were loading the bags into the back while Alucard and Wynter were trying to squeeze into the middle row. "31 Pearl River Road," choked Wynter, who was sandwiched between a large vampire and an equally large bag full of what seemed like meat tenderising devices and butcher knives (don't ask me how it got past customs).

They had barely made it to their seats when the driver slammed down on the accelerator and turned most of them into pancakes.

The taxi screeched around a corner, almost crushing an old lady hobbling across a street. Integra's suitcase burst open and a whole container of glitter's cap flew off too.

"Okay, maybe vampires _do_ sparkle in the sun." Wynter's muffled voice came from under a pile of clothes.

:)*(:

Back in Ireland, Maxwell had grown sick of Anderson's singing and the crappy cheerleading of Heinkel and Yumiko. His head was almost constantly pounding, his hair was beginning to turn gray from the stress and to top things off, the price of cheesecake had gone up by a few pounds.

In other words, Maxwell had had enough.

"Bring me a phone!" he roared at his serving girl, who trembled like a hyperactive jellyfish and did as she was told.

A trip down under was just the thing needed to cure everyone.

:)*(:

"Major, vill you sing me ze Soft Kitty Song?"

"Vhat? But I only sing it to you vhen you're sick, Schrodinger."

"Oh, just sing it to him, so he can quit his vhining und I can vork on my experiment."

The Major sighed and sat down. "Fine. But only if you go to sleep at vonce."

"Okay!" Schrodinger mewed.

And so the pudgy man cleared his throat and began to sing.

"Soft kitty, varm kitty,

Little ball of fur~

Happy kitty sleepy kitty

Purr purr purr."

"Thank you Major," the little cat boy yawned, turned on his side and fell asleep.

The Doc fished splicing together some wires. "Done!" he cackled.

"Shh, you'll wake ze kitten!"

There was a 'pff' and the Doc stood back to admire his handy work. "Ah…I am a genius. Hellsing vill never suspect zat ve have built our new base in…AUSTRALIA!"

A/N: Hope you liked this chapter! Please review!

~Wynter


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3-A Cat, a Giant Robot, and a Plane Trip **

"Wynter?" Someone poked her. "Wynter?" Another prod. "Wynter-"

The furious girl sat upright, grabbed the metal lunchbox at her side that she kept for these occasions, and whacked her poker in the face.

"Ow. That's not nice."

"It sure isn't!" Wynter screeched. "Why are you trying to wake me up at this ungodly hour? Normal people sleep at 2:00am, unless you're a vampire or Mrs Hemming from next door!"

Alucard moved into view. "But I am a vampire."

"I stand corrected. What do you want?"

"Well…I couldn't sleep in your parent's bedroom, because-"

"But my mom and dad are on holidays."

"Yeah, but your cousin is looking after you, yes? Well, his pet gerbils are keeping up enough of a racket with Walter and him snoring too."

"Okay, but why can't you crash in my brother's room? He's on camp." Wynter grumbled as she turned on the lamp. She had a bad feeling about where he would have to sleep for the rest of the night.

"Because the stink in there actually rivals the stench of Walter's burritos."

Wynter walked to her door, opened it, and sniffed the air. "Yeah, I can smell that," she choked, parts of her dying.

"And I can't bunk with Integra or the Police Girl, because, well…"

"They're girls?" she suggested.

"No. Because I have an awful crush on Integra and it'll be REALLY awkward." Alucard admitted. "I'm writing a poem for her. Do you want to hear?"

"NoI'msorryIcan't!" Wynter shuffled away from him, holding up a clove of garlic.

"Do you really keep some of that in your bedroom?"

"Yes, along with several stakes, a hunting knife, 20 toothpicks and a jumbo box of 'Man-size' Kleenex which I got from Safeway. I'm allergic to dust mites, grass, trees, pollen, and coconut. What? I get paranoid!"

Alucard looked like he was debating whether to run off screaming or to stay. "Uh, alright then. I just wanted to ask…if I could stay in your room."

Wynter sighed again, and grabbed an inflatable mattress, a sleeping bag, and a golf-club.

"Any funny business…" she warned.

"You keep a golf-club in your closet?"

"Oh, I keep worse."

Wynter half crawled, half fell through the door. Seras picked her up, and Integra took her bag. "So how was ballet?" she asked.

Wynter groaned in pain. "Not great. I had class with 19-year olds."

"Why?" inquired Integra as they dragged her into the living room, which was attached to the kitchen. An appalling smell wafted in. Walter was making dinner. "Aren't you only 13?"

"It's an open class for seniors." Explained Wynter as they opened the windows. "As long as you're a senior, you can attend the class. So I was doing pointe work with a bunch of people twice my size. At least I beat my record. I managed to do 74 continuous fouettes around the room."

Alucard waltzed in. Wynter's cat, Meowla, went up and mewed a question. She then began to wind around his legs, seeming to say, "PAT ME! PAT ME!"

The No-Life King reached down.

Meowla suddenly expanded to twice her size. The enraged feline shut her jaws with an audible snap on the unsuspecting vampire's hand.

The yell that followed probably broke a world record.

Alucard was spinning around in circles, shaking his hand. Meowla had latched onto his hand with a set of teeth and all four paws (and claws). Wynter was shielding her head with her lunchbox. Integra, and Seras clung to each other, shrilling as vases and whatnot that had been knocked out of their places flew all over the place. Walter and Louis were running around like headless chickens, trying to recapture Milo, Louis's gerbil.

Now, when you have a bad poetry spouting vampire, an escaped gerbil, an angry cat, screaming girls, a tired-as-hell dancer, a terrible cook and an angsty teenager in one room, it is never good.

In fact, it would be one of the best recipes for disaster one has ever seen.

The result was a massive mess that would take over two hours to clean up.

"Schrodinger!" barked the Major.

"Ja, mein Father?"

"Bring ze pickles!"

Schrodinger's ears drooped. He had expected to have a more interesting task. As a result of a direct order from the Major, none of the troops were to leave their new headquarters until Dok had finished building the massive cyborg that would hopefully enable them to enslave the world.

Suddenly, the Dok pranced into the room, singing at the top of his lungs. Rip glared and slapped him. "I'm ze vone vho does ze singing!"

Dok didn't seem to notice. "Major, Major~" he sang to the tune of Jingle Bells. "I've completed ze machine!"

"Excellent!" the fat man clapped his hands together, his pudgy face lighting up. "Show me!"

The Dok lead the way, skipping towards a door as the Major followed, with some difficulty.

Millennium's troops held their breath as a glow appeared from underneath the closed door of the lab.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang! as the door was blown off its hinges.

The blackened face of the Dok appeared. "I think I vill need to fix it."

All of the soldiers' faces were perfect replicas of the 'You don't say?' meme face.

Poor, poor Maxwell. He was sitting on a plane between Anderson and Yumiko. On one side, one of the most hideous covers of Bad Romance was screeched out. On the other, two insane nuns dressed in skimpy cheerleading outfits and toting blue and white pom-poms were hollering like a bag of cats being hit by a metal baseball bat.

Now, usually, the sight of Heinkel or Yumiko wearing such slutty costumes would have set Maxwell's heart racing faster than Anderson on coffee. (Never give him that stuff. Ever.) However, this time, he was completely put off, because:

The yelling

The horrendous singing

He was air-sick.

Yep. The respected, revered, fearsome, and handsome (in his eyes) director of the special Vatican Section XIII Iscariot, was feeling a bit upset in the tummy.

"Everyone please fasten their seat-belts. We have hit a spot of turbulence." The intercom crackled to life as the pilot's voice filtered through.

With the first bump, Maxwell's face began to turn a nasty and unnatural shade of green. He moaned, clutching his stomach with one hand. With the other, he scrabbled desperately for the sick-bag. He opened it just in time.

"ABLARGGGHHHHH!"

"ROMA-ROMA-A-A!"

"GIMME A 'C' !"

"BLEARGHHHHHHH !"

"GAGA OOH-LA-LA-LA !"

"GIMME AN 'R'!"

"GRAEARGHHHHH!"

"WANT YOUR BAD ROMANCE!"

"Maxwell, are you okay?"

"BARFFFFGGHHHH!"

Back at Wynter's house, Integra was shrieking like a possessed banshee. "I BROKE A NAIL!" she howled, tearing at her hair. "MY LIFE IS OVER!"

Seras was doing her best to comfort her. Alucard was unsure of whether to pat her on the back or recite poetry. Wynter was passed out on the couch after having a certain nosferatu drop a 6 kilo furry eating machine on her head. Louis was still looking for Milo. Walter was fixing Integra a cup of tea in the kitchen. Meowla was sitting on the top of the treadmill, looking smug.

"You," Alucard intoned, shaking a finger at the offending cat. "This is your entire fault!"

Meowla turned and stalked off.

"Okay Integra, how about this? You go have a shower, change and freshen up yourself. Then, me and Wynter will give you a complete makeover, and make you look picture perfect!" Seras pleaded in a desperate attempt to shut her up.

"Really?" Integra instantly perked up.

"Yes, really," Seras said, exasperated, and then realised what she had said. _Oh god…what have I done?_


End file.
